CHAPTER XVIII
John Crewys stood on the walk below the terrace, with Peter by hisside, enjoying an after-breakfast smoke, and watching a party ofsportsmen climbing up the bracken-clothed slopes of the oppositehillside. A dozen beaters were toiling after the guns, among whomthe short and sturdy figure of Colonel Hewel was very plainly to bedistinguished. A boy was leading a pony-cart for the game.
Sarah had accepted an invitation to dine and spend the evening withher beloved Lady Mary at Barracombe; but Peter had another appointmentwith her besides, of which Lady Mary knew nothing. He was to meet herat the ferry, and picnic on the moor at the top of the hill, on hisside of the river. But through all the secret joy and triumph thatpossessed him at the remembrance of this rendezvous, he could not butsigh as he watched the little procession of sportsmen opposite, andalmost involuntarily his regret escaped him in the half-mutteredwords--
"I shall never shoot again."
"There are things even better worth doing in life," said John,sympathetically.
"Colonel Hewel wouldn't give in to that," said Peter.
"He's rather a one-idea'd man," John agreed. "But if you asked himwhether he'd sacrifice all the sport he's ever likely to enjoy, forone chance to distinguish himself in action--why, you're a soldier,and you know best what he'd say."
Peter's brow cleared. "You've got a knack," he said, almostgraciously, "of putting a fellow in a good humour with himself, CousinJohn."
"I generally find it easier to be in a good humour with myself thanwith other people," said John, whimsically. "One expects so littlefrom one's self, that one is scarcely ever disappointed; and somuch from other people, that nothing they can do comes up to one'sexpectations."
"I don't know about that," said Peter, bluntly. "Old Crawley says_you_ take it out of yourself like anything. Since I came back thistime, he's been holding forth to me about all you've done for me andthe estate, and all that. I didn't know my father had left things insuch a mess. And that was a smart thing you did about buying in thefarm, and settling the dispute with the Crown, which my father used tobe so worried over. I see I've got a good bit to thank you for, CousinJohn. I--I'm no end grateful, and all that."
"All right," said John. "Don't bother to make speeches, old boy."
"I must say one thing, though," said Peter, awkwardly. "I was againstall the changes, and thought they might have been left till I camehome; but I didn't realize it was to be now or never, as old Crawleyputs it, and that I'm not to have the right to touch my capital when Icome of age."
"The whole arrangement was rather an unusual one; but everything'sworked out all right, and, as far as the estate goes, you'll find itin pretty fair order to start upon, and values increased," said John,quietly. "But Crawley has the whole thing at his fingers' ends, andthe interest of the place thoroughly at heart. You couldn't have abetter adviser."
"He's well enough," said Peter, somewhat ungraciously.
"Shall we take a turn up and down?" said John. He lighted a freshcigarette. "There is a chill feeling in the air, though it is such alovely morning."
"It will be warmer when the sun has conquered the mist," said Peter,with a slight shiver.
The white dew on the long grass, and the gossamer cobwebs spun in asingle night from twig to twig of the rose-trees, glittered in thesunshine.
The autumn roses bloomed cheerfully in the long border, and the robinswere singing loudly on the terrace above. The heavy heads of thedahlias drooped beneath their weight of moisture, in these last daysof their existence, before the frost would bring them to a sudden end.Capucines, in every shade of brown and crimson and gold, ran riot overthe ground.
Peter drew a pipe from his pocket, put it in his mouth, took out histobacco-pouch, and filled the pipe with his left hand.
John watched him with interest. "That was dexterously done."
"I'm getting pretty handy," said the hero, with satisfaction, strikinga match; "but"--his face fell anew--"no more football; one feels thatsort of thing just at the beginning of the season. No more games.It wouldn't tell so much on a fellow like you, Cousin John, who'sperfectly happy with a book, and who--"
"Who's too old for games," suggested John.
"Oh, there's always golf," said Peter.
"A refuge for the aged, eh?" said John, and his eyes twinkled. "ButMiss Sarah says you bid fair to beat her at croquet."
"Oh, she was--just rotting," said Peter; and the tone touched John,though he detested slang. "And what's croquet, after all, to a fellowthat's used to exercise? I suppose I shall be all right again hunting,when I've got my nerve back a bit. At present it's rotten. A fellowfeels so beastly helpless and one-sided. However, that'll wear off, Iexpect."
"I hope so," said John.
They reached the end of the long walk, and stood for a moment beneaththe eastern turret, watching the sparkles on the brown surface of theriver below, and the white mist floating away down the valley.
"Talking of advice," said Peter, abruptly--"if I wanted _that_, I'drather come to you than to old Crawley. After all, though you won't bemy guardian much longer, you're still my mother's trustee."
"Yes," said John, smiling; "the law still entitles me to take aninterest in--in your mother."
"Of course I shouldn't dream of mentioning her affairs, or mineeither, for that matter, to any one else," said Peter.
He made an exception in his own mind, but decided that it was notnecessary to explain this to John, for the moment.
"Thank you, Peter," said John.
"My mother--seems to me," said Peter, slowly, "to have changed verymuch since I went to South Africa. Have you noticed it?"
"I have," said John, dryly.
"I don't suppose," said Peter, quickening his steps, "that any onecould realize exactly what I feel about it."
"I think--perhaps--I could," said John, without visible satire, "dimlyand, no doubt, inadequately."
"The fact is," said Peter, and the warm colour rushed into his brownface, even to his thin temples, "I--I'm hoping to get married verysoon; though nothing's exactly settled yet."
"A man in your position generally marries early," said John. "I thinkyou're quite right."
"As my mother likes--the girl I want to marry," said Peter, "I hopedit would make everything straight. But she seems quite miserable atthe thought of settling down quietly in the Dower House."
"Ah! in the Dower House," said John. "Then you will not be wanting herto live here with you, after all?"
"It's the same thing, though," said Peter, "as I've tried to explainto her. She'd be only a few yards off; and she could still be lookingafter the place and my interests, and all that, as she does now. Andwhenever I was down here, I should see her constantly; you know howdevoted I am to my mother. Of course I can't deny I did lead herto hope I should be always with her. But a man can't help it if hehappens to fall in love. Of course, if--if all happens as I hope, as Ihave reason to hope, I shall _have_ to be away from her a good deal.But that's all in the course of nature as a fellow grows up. I sha'n'tbe any the less glad to see her when I _do_ come home. And yet hereshe is talking quite wildly of leaving Barracombe altogether, andgoing to London, and travelling all over the world, and doing allsorts of things she's never done in her life. It's not like my mother,and I can't bear to think of her like that. I tell you she's changedaltogether," said Peter, and there were tears in his grey eyes.
John felt an odd sympathy for the boy; he recognized that thoughPeter's limitations were obvious, his anxiety was sincere.
Peter, too, had his ideals; if they were ideals conventional and outof date, that was hardly his fault. John figured to himself verydistinctly that imaginary mother whom Peter held sacred; the motherwho stayed always at home, and parted her hair plainly, and said manyprayers, and did much needlework; but who, nevertheless, was not, andnever could be, the real Lady Mary, whom Peter did not know. But itwas a tender ideal in its way, though it belonged to that past intowhich so many tender and beautiful visions have
faded.
The maiden of to-day still dreams of the knightly armour-clad heroesof the twelfth century; it is not her fault that she is presently gladto fall in love with a gentleman on the Stock Exchange, in a top hatand a frock coat.
"I have seen something of women of the world," said Peter, who hadscarcely yet skimmed the bubbles from the surface of that society,whose depths he believed himself to have explored. "I suppose that iswhat my mother wants to turn into, when she talks of London and Paris._My mother_! who has lived in the country all her life."
"I suppose some women are worldly," said John, as gravely as possible,"and no doubt the shallow-hearted, the stupid, the selfish are to befound everywhere, and belonging to either sex; but, nevertheless,solid virtue and true kindness are to be met with among the dames ofMayfair as among the matrons of the country-side. Their shibboleth isdifferent, that's all. Perhaps--it is possible--that the speech of thetown ladies is the more charitable, that they seek more persistentlyto do good to their fellow-creatures. I don't know. Comparisonsare odious, but so," he added, with a slight laugh, "are generalconclusions, founded on popular prejudice rather than individualexperience--odious."
Here John perceived that his words of wisdom were conveying hardly anymeaning to Peter, who was only waiting impatiently till he had cometo an end of them; so he pursued this topic no further, and contentedhimself by inquiring:
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to explain to her," said Peter, eagerly, "how unsuitableit would be; and to advise her to settle down quietly at the DowerHouse, as I'm sure my father would have wished her to do. That's all."
"I see," said John, "you want me to put the case to her from yourpoint of view."
"I wish you would," said Peter, earnestly; "every one says you're soeloquent. Surely you could talk her over?"
"I hope I am not eloquent in private life," said John, laughing. "Butif you want to know how it appears to me--?"
Peter nodded gravely, pipe in mouth.
"Let us see. To start with," said John, thoughtfully, "you went off,a boy from Eton, to serve your country when you thought, and rightly,that your country had need of you. You distinguished yourself in SouthAfrica--"
"Surely you needn't go into all that?" said Peter, staring.
"Excuse me," said John, smiling. "In putting your case, I can't bearto leave out vital details. Merely professional prejudice. Shortly,then, you fully sustained your share in a long and arduous campaign;you won your commission; you were wounded, decorated, and invalidedhome."
He stopped short in the brilliant sunshine which now flooded theirpath, and looked gravely at Peter.
"Some of us," said John, "have imagination enough to realize, evenwithout the help of war-correspondents, the scenes of horror throughwhich you, and scores of other boys, fresh from school, like you, hadto live through. We can picture the long hours on the veldt--on themarch--in captivity--in the hospitals--in the blockhouses--whensoldiers have been sick at heart, wearied to death with physicalsuffering, and haunted by ghastly memories of dead comrades."
Peter hurriedly drew his left hand from the pocket where the belovedtobacco-pouch reposed, and pulled his brown felt hat down over hiseyes, as though the October sunlight hurt them.
"I think at such times, Peter," said John, quietly continuing his walkby the boy's side, "that you must have longed now and then for yourhome; for this peaceful English country, your green English woods, andthe silent hall where your mother waited for you, trembled for you,prayed for you. I think your heart must have ached then, as so manymen's hearts have ached, to remember the times when you might havemade her happy by a word, or a look, or a smile. And you didn't do it,Peter--_you didn't do it_."
Peter made a restless movement indicative of surprise and annoyance;but he was silent still, and John changed his tone, and spoke lightlyand cheerfully.
"Well, then you came home; and your joy of life, of youth, of healthall returned; and you looked forward, naturally, to taking your shareof the pleasures open to other young men of your standing. But younever meant to forget your mother, as so many careless sons forgetthose who have watched and waited for them. Even though you fell inlove, you still thought of her. When you were weary of travel, orpleasure connected with the outside world, you meant always to returnto her. You liked to think she would still be waiting for you;faithfully, gratefully waiting, within the sacred precincts of yourchildhood's home. And now, when you remember her submission to yourfather's wishes in the past, and her single-hearted devotion toyourself, you are shocked and disappointed to find that she can wishto descend from her beautiful and guarded solitude here, and mix withher fellow-creatures in the work-a-day world. Why," said John, in atone rather of dreaming and tenderness than of argument, "that wouldbe to tear the jewel from its setting--the noble central figure fromthe calm landscape, lit by the evening sun."
There was a pause, during which Peter smoked energetically.
"Well," he said presently, "of course I can't follow all thathighfalutin' style, you know--"
"Of course not," said John, "I understand. You're a plain Englishman."
"Exactly," said Peter, relieved; "I am. But one thing I willsay--you've got the idea."
"Thank you," said John.
"If you can put it like that to my mother," said Peter, still busywith his pipe, but speaking very emphatically, "why, all I can say is,that I believe it's the way to get round her. I've often noticedhow useless it seems to talk common-sense to her. But a word ofsentiment--and there you are. Strange to say, she likes nothingbetter than--er--poetry. I hope you don't mind my calling you ratherpoetical," said Peter, in a tone of sincere apology. "I wish, John,you'd go straight to my mother, and put the whole case before her,just like that."
"The whole case!" said John. "But, my dear fellow, that's only halfthe case."
"What do you mean?"
"The other half," said John, "is the case from _her_ point of view."
"I don't see," said Peter, "how her point of view can be differentfrom mine."
John's thoughts flew back to a February evening, more than twoyears earlier. It seemed to him that Sir Timothy stood before him,surprised, pompous, argumentative. But he saw only Peter, looking athim with his father's grey eyes set in a boy's thin face.
"My experience as a barrister," he said, with a curious sense ofrepeating himself, "has taught me that it is possible for two personsto take diametrically opposite views of the same question."
"And what happens then?" said Peter, stupidly.
"Our bread and butter."
"But _why_ should my mother leave the place she's lived in for yearsand years, and go gadding about all over the world--at her time oflife? I don't see what can be said for the wisdom of that?"
"Nothing from your point of view, I dare say," said John. "Much fromhers. If you are willing to listen, and if," he added smiling, as anafterthought, "you will promise not to interrupt?"
"Well," said Peter, rather doubtfully, "all right, I promise. Youwon't be long, I suppose?"
He glanced stealthily down towards the ferry, though he knew thatSarah would not be there for a couple of hours at least, and that hecould reach it in less than ten minutes. But half the pleasure ofmeeting Sarah consisted in waiting for her at the trysting-place.
John observed the glance, and smiled imperceptibly. He took out hiswatch.
"I shall speak," he said, carefully examining it, "for four minutes."
"Let's sit," said Peter. "It's warm enough now, in all conscience."
They sat upon an old stone bench below the turret. Peter leant backwith his black head resting against the wall, his felt hat tippedover his eyes and his pipe in his mouth. He looked comfortable, evengood-humoured.
"Go ahead," he murmured.
"To understand the case from your mother's point of view, I amafraid it is necessary," said John, "to take a rapid glance at thecircumstances of her life which have--which have made her what sheis. She came here, as a child, didn'
t she, when her father died; andthough he had just succeeded to the earldom, he died a very poor man?Your father, as her guardian, spared no pains, nor expense forthat matter, in educating and maintaining her. When she was barelyseventeen years old, he married her."
There was a slight dryness in John's voice as he made the statement,which accounted for the gruffness of Peter's acquiescence.
"Of course--she was quite willing," said John, understanding theoffence implied by Peter's growl. "But as we are looking at thingsexclusively from her point of view just now, we must not forget thatshe had seen nothing of the world, nothing of other men. She hadalso"--he caught his breath--"a bright, gay, pleasure-lovingdisposition; but she moulded herself to seriousness to please herhusband, to whom she owed everything. When other girls of her age wereplaying at love--thinking of dances, and games and outings--she wasabsorbed in motherhood and household cares. A perfect wife, a perfectmother, as poor human nature counts perfection."
Lady Mary would have cried out in vehement contradiction andself-reproach, had she heard these words; but Peter again growledreluctant acquiescence, when John paused.
"In one day," said John, slowly, "she was robbed of husband and child.Her husband by death; her boy, her only son, by his own will. Hedeserted her without even bidding, or intending to bid her, farewell.Hush--remember, this is from _her_ point of view."
Peter had started to his feet with an angry exclamation; but he satdown again, and bent his sullen gaze on the garden path as Johncontinued. His brown face was flushed; but John's low, deep tones,now tender, now scornful, presently enchained and even fascinated hisattention. He listened intently, though angrily.
"Her grief was passionate, but--her life was not over," said John."She, who had been guided from childhood by the wishes of others, nowfound that, without neglecting any duty, she could consult her owninclinations, indulge her own tastes, choose her own friends, enjoywith all the fervour of an unspoilt nature the world which openedfreshly before her: a world of art, of music, of literature, of athousand interests which mean so much to some of us, so little toothers. To her returns this formerly undutiful son, and finds--apassionately devoted mother, indeed, but also a woman in the fullpride of her beauty and maturity. And this boy would condemn_her_--the most delightful, the most attractive, the most unselfishcompanion ever desired by a man--to sit in the chimney-corner like anold crone with a distaff, throughout all the years that fate may yethold in store for her--with no greater interest in life than to watchthe fading of her own sweet face in the glass, and to await theintervals during which he would be graciously pleased to afford herthe consolation of his presence."
"Have you done?" said Peter, furiously.
"I could say a good deal more," said John, growing suddenly cool."But"--he showed his watch--"my time is up."
"What--what do you mean by all this?" said the boy, stammering withpassion. "What is my mother to _you_?"
The time had come.
John's bright hazel eyes had grown stern; his middle-aged face,flushed with the emotion his own words had aroused, yet controlled andcalm in every line of handsome feature and steady brow, confrontedPeter's angry, bewildered gaze.
"She is the woman I love," said John. "The woman I mean to make mywife."
He remained seated, silently waiting for Peter to imbibe andassimilate his words.
After a quick gasp of incredulous indignation, Peter, too, sat silentat his side.
John gave him time to recover before he spoke again.
"I hope," he said, very gently, "that when you have thought it over,you won't mind it so much. As it's going to be--it would be pleasanterif you and I could be friends. I think, later on, you may evenperceive advantages in the arrangement--under the circumstances; whenyou have recovered from your natural regret in realizing that she mustleave Barracombe--"
"It isn't that," said Peter, hoarsely. He felt he must speak; and healso desired, it must be confessed, to speak offensively, and relievehimself somewhat of the accumulated rage and resentment that wasburning in his breast. "It's--it's simply"--he said, flushing darkly,and turning his face away from John's calm and friendly gaze--"that tome--to _me_, the idea is--ridiculous."
"Ah!" said John. He rose from the stone bench. A spark of anger cameto him, too, as he looked at Peter, but he controlled his voice andhis temper. "The time will come," he said, "when your imagination willbe able to grasp the possibility of love between a man in the fortiesand a woman in the thirties. At least, for your sake, I hope it will."
"Why for my sake?" said Peter.
"Because I should be sorry," said John, "if you died young."
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